


between here and heaven

by ethia



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold pinches his mouth around a smile. He won't be hastened, not even by the not so subtle invitation meant to draw him away from his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between here and heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, the boys don't belong to me, I merely borrowed them. I love them, anyway.
> 
> The title of this work was borrowed from Here And Heaven by Chris Thile. (It's a wonderful song; go check out the Goat Rodeo version if you feel like it.)

+++

 

There's a tinge of rust to the light that filters in through the window front; it registers as _oh, evening_ and Harold pauses in his typing to squint past the screen. Next to him, Bear raises his head, ears pricked. The sound that has alerted him is small, a faint rustling of sheets that comes and goes within the space of two breaths.

 

“All right,” Harold murmurs, softly, and Bear couches his head on his paws obligingly, soothed.

 

His focus now disturbed, Harold wraps up his coding. This part finished, and this one left for the next session, fingers spidering out over the keyboard in subconscious patterns.

 

Another rustle, and a sound that may have been a soft sigh.

 

Truly distracted, Harold pinches his mouth around a smile. He won't be hastened, not even by the not so subtle invitation meant to draw him away from his work.

 

Not that he isn't tempted.

 

Bear gives a little whine, head raised again, eyes intent on Harold.

 

“Oh, you. Just as bad as him, you are.” He keeps the words quite under his breath, so they won't carry as far as the bedroom.

 

Harold fishes a treat from the small bag next to his keyboard. Bear wolfs it down, and Harold wonders how nice it must be to be so easily placated. He ruffles the dog's head, rubs affectionately at the soft fur.

 

“Stay.”

 

The Dutch commands come easily to him now, although Bear has quickly learned to do Harold's bidding from as much as a glance or a gesture, having gone through John's patient training. The dog's attentive to a fault; a trait that no amount of training could have instilled in him, John keeps insisting.

 

He likes you, Harold. Wants you to be safe.

 

Harold smiles to himself as he puts his laptop in stand-by. He makes his way to the bedroom slowly, pauses only briefly to take in the view, the rooftops gilded by the settling sun. A humming sound, much like a long, stuttering sigh, draws him away and back into motion, heading to where he's apparently wanted. Fondness wells up in him, warm and strong, reaches up and outward from deep within, the emotion sure though this is all rather new. This, _them_ ; him in John's apartment, dressed in shirt and slacks, utterly content. At home.

 

He stops in the doorway to take in the sight of John sprawled on the bed, as naked as Harold left him, but no longer asleep, closed as his eyes may be. John's breathing deeply, all languid and alluring, the sheets tangled about his legs, his chest bare to Harold's gaze.

 

“Getting started without me, John?”

 

His eyes slide open slowly, gaze lazy under those soft lashes of his. Harold swallows around a sudden burst of memory; those same lashes wet as they curve against the side of Harold's neck, John's face hidden in the crook of his shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Harold's flushed skin. It tugs at him every time, the way John will duck his head and bring his face to the safety of Harold's neck, whimpering as he finds his release.

 

“I thought I might entice you to come join me,” John murmurs, his voice still a little sleep-rough and laced with the deep rasp of his arousal. “I haven't interrupted your work, have I?” No remorse and all mischief, the laugh lines about his eyes crinkling with it.

 

There's no misinterpreting the slow motion of his arm as it moves against his hip, back and forth, the silken slide of his hand where it's hidden under the sheets. Harold follows the motion with his eyes, riveted by the now familiar rhythm.

 

“I have wrapped things up for now,” he says, after clearing his throat, his eyes back on John's face, entranced by the flush that creeps up his neck and all the way to the sharp jut of his cheekbones.

 

“Happy to hear it,” John says, his voice lower still. “Then why don't you come here, Harold?”

Breathy, raspy; as inviting as he can possibly make himself be. Not quite begging, but seducing, and Harold feels light-headed with it, the impossible knowledge of being, right now, this man's only desire.

 

“The whole point was, John,” he makes himself say, fingers pressed chastely to the sides of his slacks, “to let you have some rest.”

 

He gives a cursory glance at the rust-colored bruises on John's chest and right shoulder, fall-out from their latest number. They're fading already, no longer causing pain, but the sight of them still wrenches Harold's gut with a churning mix of anger and fear.

 

“I have rested,” John drawls, his other hand fanned lightly over the fine dusting of hair just below his navel. “I will rest some more. Later.”

 

“Later.”

 

“ _After._ ”

 

The drag of his hand under the sheet is long and slow; John's breath hitches and his mouth falls open, his eyes wide and dark. “Harold.”

 

His name comes out as nothing more than a groan, and Harold can't keep away from him any longer; can't stand not to touch. He sits down on the side of the bed, slides one hand up the length of John's thigh, while his other picks at the sheet, drawing it out of the way.

 

“Let me,” he murmurs, “John, let me.”

 

Their fingers tangle for a moment around the thick swell of John's erection; John rolls his hips up into the combined pressure of their hands, grunting.

 

“Let me,” Harold says, again, and John, with a breathy sigh, lets his hands fall away, digs his fingers into the sheets, swallowing thickly.

 

“Harold...”

 

“Easy, John.”

 

Harold twines the fingers of his free hand with John's, rubs a soothing circle over the pad of his thumb, and slides his other hand along John's cock, slow and steady.

 

“Tell me, John,” Harold whispers, his own voice no longer unaffected, eyes locked on John's, the wide open nakedness of his gaze, “tell me what you've been thinking about just then.”

 

John moans, his eyes slipping shut for a moment, his hips bucking into Harold's touch twice before he regains control. When his eyes open again, John smiles at him, smiles in a way that makes Harold squirm, his own cock hardening quickly. He has surprised John, he can tell, impressed him in some small way and his breathing goes ragged with it.

 

“You're... you're in the library, and I'm back from working a number. We've saved them, but... but I've been reckless, endangered myself, and I can tell how angry you are by the way you won't even look at me. You're being short with me, one word sentences only, and oh, I, hover close, because sometimes it'll soften you up, the way I'm standing close, seeking you out. Not this time, though.”

 

Harold shifts his weight and John gasps, presses up into Harold's hand, rolling his hips to make the head of his cock drag across the width of Harold's palm. John moans, a long, ragged sound that goes straight to Harold's groin.

 

“Bear can feel the tension between us; he whines and you order him silent. That commanding tone of yours, it really gets to me. I'm hard for you, Harold, throbbing in my pants; I'd do anything to get back into your good graces. For a moment, I hope... I hope that you'll order me to kneel, to suck you off right there and I want it, I want it so badly, you have no idea. But you don't, and I must have made a sound because now you look at me. I grow harder under your gaze, and I know that you know it. You don't speak right away, you look your fill at first, and I know you're going to make me work for it.”

 

John gasps, his body tensing and shuddering, his hips thrusting eagerly into Harold's touch. Harold tightens his grasp reflexively, and adds a twist at the end of each pull that has John moan repeatedly, lost for a moment in the sensation.

 

“What do I say, John?”

 

“Ah, you, you tell me to bend over the desk opposite yours. I'm quick to obey, _eager_ , moving before you've even finished your sentence. I want you to know that I'll do as you say. I'm going to please you, Harold. I'm going to make it so very, very good. You step up behind me and start to touch me, the inside of my thighs, my balls, my ass, you're kneading the muscle there and when you press down on the small of my back I move for you, rubbing myself against the edge of the desk.”

 

John's fingers are clenched in the sheets; there's a sheen of sweat on his face, his chest, and he's rushing to get out the words, eyes on Harold's all the time, his gaze wild with arousal.

 

“You make me hold on to the desk as you pull down my pants and briefs, your hands all over me. I keep thrusting until you put a finger into me, and then, right after it, a second. It's so good, Harold, the stretch and burn of it, because it means you're going to fill me, fuck me. You've slicked your fingers for me, considerate even now, you always take care of me, even when you're angry with me.”

 

“Always, John,” Harold says, voice trembling, and he raises their tangled fingers to his mouth, to press a kiss to the back of John's hand. It's clumsy, but John's lips stretch into a smile, and he's so beautiful that for a moment, Harold forgets to breathe or move or even think past the look on John's face.

 

“You add a third finger and I keen for you, Harold. You haven't told me to be quiet so I know I can be loud for you like I want to, let you know how good you're making me feel. It's so good, Harold, but I want more, I'm so ready for you, I'm going crazy with it. You take your time, sweet and slow, and it seems forever until you finally push your cock into me, full and hard, so good.”

 

John's voice slurs on the words, his eyes slipping shut with the fantasy, but he forces them open again, wanting to share this with Harold. Harold moans at the sight of him, flushed and tense and eager, the sensuous stretch of his mouth as he starts to speak again.

 

“You fuck me hard, with all that pent-up anger behind it, but your hands are gentle on me as you push my shirt up so you can kiss my back all over, and rest your cheek under my shoulder, your arms going around me, holding me close. You slip one hand down my stomach to my cock; I'm so hard I'm leaking for you, and you jerk me roughly, just the way I need it. I come before you do, can't, can't stop myself; you let me, your mouth moving on my skin and I know you know how sorry I am, that I didn't mean to be reckless, that I wouldn't ever worry you on purpose. I'll always do my best to come back to you, Harold, always, I--”

 

Harold's grip on John's cock must be unbearably tight, but John keeps pushing himself into it, his back arching into the mattress, his body tensing as he comes in hot splashes over Harold's hand, John's stomach, his chest. He moans softly, coming back down with a succession of small, breathy gasps, his eyes shut with the drowsiness that follows his release, and Harold's heart feels like it must burst with the affection he feels for John right then.

 

John lies with his chest heaving, that endearing flush spread out over his body, one arm draped across his face. Harold gently wipes him clean with a discarded undershirt, fingers lingering on the softness of John's belly, the inside of his thighs.

 

“I'm not going to rest yet, Harold,” John murmurs from under the shield of his arm, what's visible of his mouth quirked into a smile that's equal parts sated and seductive. “So don't you try to tuck me in.”

 

“Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, softly, so as not to betray the trembling of his voice. John peers up at him, laughing, and Harold knows he can't have a secret from him, not anymore.

 

“Is that right, Finch?”

 

The throaty rasp of John's voice teases it's way right under Harold's skin; he's helpless as John sits up and pulls him close, ducking his head into the crook of Harold's shoulder. He stays like that for a moment, all warm and languid against Harold, content to hold and be held. When he moves, it's with an easy grace, all fluid motion, and just like that he's draped himself so that his head is in Harold's lap. A quick glance up at Harold's face with one of his shy smiles and John presses the exquisite heat of his mouth to the front of Harold's slacks. John drags his mouth along the length of Harold's erection through the fabric a few times before working him free. Harold's hands tangle in John's hair as John takes him in all the way, his throat working eagerly. His pacing is fierce, relentless; Harold has nothing to offer in the way of resistance. He pushes his hips in cadence with John's movements, a low gasp all the warning John gets of Harold's imminent release.

 

Harold holds on to John as everything else falls away; there's just the heat of John's mouth, the insistent tug and pull and rub of his throat, the incredible softness of his hair under Harold's fingers as his pleasure spirals out of control. When he becomes aware again, he's draped bonelessly around John, John's head and shoulders cradled in his embrace. Harold presses kiss after kiss into John's hair, loathe to break the intimacy of their connection.

 

John lets him regain his breath, curled in Harold's lap, relaxed under the protective sprawl of Harold's hands. After a while Harold lets John coax him into a more comfortable position, stretched out next to each other on the bed, John's face tucked into the cradle of Harold's shoulder.

 

“I'm not ever angry with you, John,” Harold says, his fingers restless on the skin of John's back, the smooth warmth of his skin. “I wouldn't know how to be.” He pauses, and there's no hiding the tremor in his voice now. “I'm glad for every day that you come back to me.”

 

He longs to tip back John's head, peer closely at him; make him see how very much he means it. John burrows further into him instead, his breath warm and even against Harold's skin. His hand finds Harold's, squeezing. He knows, and Harold's heart leaps.

 

“Me, too,” John whispers. He kisses the side of Harold's neck, once, a lingering caress. “Stay with me?”

 

“Always."

 

For as long a time as they'll be granted, one day at a time, and Harold will have each one gladly, never fearing for the next.

 

 

Fin.


End file.
